


you're super spiffy!

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, i can't believe this is an actual fic that exists, i'm calling the ship nicepants ok fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in retail hell goes on. Occasionally, some people make it slightly more tolerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're super spiffy!

**Author's Note:**

> so apparently in some circles, jokes about OTPs are accepted as a challenge.

He angles for your register, _beaming,_ and you take a very brief moment to consider just how fired you’d be if you rolled your eyes back into your skull. You decide, after that moment, that the answer would be “very”, so you glue your smile back on your face and let it stretch uncomfortably at your cheeks as he lopes up to the counter.

“Welcome to MTT-Brand Burger Emporium, home of the Glamburger,” you begin, and you’re a little surprised when he doesn’t immediately interrupt your spiel with an order. Maybe he hasn’t heard it before, so you continue. “Sparkle up your day™!”

“Wow,” he replies brightly, “that’s really impressive!”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That ™ thing you just did with your voice,” he adds, when you don’t respond. “I bet you’ve practiced that a lot!”

“You have _no idea,_ buddy,” you reply, leaning on the counter. Visions of Mettaton and pink slips dance in your head, then, and you jerk back, plastering your smile back on. Can’t afford to get fired. “How can I serve you today, O Customer?”

His floppy ears perk back up, and he glances over your head at the menu. Oh _great,_ he really hasn’t been here before. At least the menu’s small, and it doesn’t take him long to read through the _four entire items_ listed on the board. “What’s your favorite thing here, friend?” he finally asks.

You’d like to slam his happy face into the counter—or in absence of his, yours. You just work here! You can barely afford this overpriced junk, and even if you had the money for it you wouldn’t spend it on food you’ve seen being made by your less-than-hygenic coworkers!

But you don’t slam anyone’s face into the counter, you give him your best MTT-Brand smile and you think fondly about quitting time. “I highly recommend the glamburger, sir,” you say, forcing the answer out from between your teeth. “The steak in the shape of Mettaton’s face is also very nice.”

“I’ll take a glamburger, then!” he says, beaming again. “Always did mean to try one of those.”

“Can I interest you in adding a starfait to your order for only 60G more?”

“Why, sure!” He sparkles more than the glitter on a glamburger. It’d almost be endearing if it didn’t make you want to throw something at him, because _nobody_ can be this earnestly cheerful. “Some _wonderful_ Royal Guards bought out my entire Nice Cream stand today, so I’m treating myself to a fancy meal!”

You punch the starfait into the cash register, too, and bag a burger for him. “That sounds nice.”

“Oh, it is! Who would’ve thought the trick would be leaving Snowdin and moving my cart all the way out to Hotland?” His ears tilt in a confused slant, like he’s trying to process that fact. “I guess there’s more call for Nice Cream out where it’s a little warmer.”

“I probably wouldn’t eat ice cream if I lived in Snowdin,” you reply, wondering if he’s serious. He looks it, and you hand him his glitter-encrusted bag containing his sequin-encrusted burger, and start to blend the confetti into his starfait.

“Nice Cream,” he corrects you, his smile enormous. “It’s like ice cream, but nice!”

“Yeah? What makes it nice?” You don’t really care, but his enthusiasm is the tiniest bit contagious. _Tiniest_ bit.

“There’s something nice written in every wrapper!” He accepts the starfait, picking curiously at the cardboard glitter-covered star you stick on the rim of the cup. “It’ll warm you right up! That’s why I started in Snowdin.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, yet again.

“That’ll be 180G,” you inform him, and you hand him his receipt and his change and dust the glitter off your hands in a cloud of sparkling pink and purple. “Have a fan _tab_ ulastic day, sir.”

He breaks into the most genuine heartfelt grin you think you’ve ever seen in your life, even more so than the past three or four he’s given you (if that’s even possible). “Thank you! I hope you have a wonderful day, as well! I’ll be back in Hotland tomorrow, if you’d like to come by and try some Nice Cream!”

You wave a little, politely, and watch him practically waltz himself out the door.

Weirdo.

 

 

You work the next eight days in a row. 

Who are you kidding? You practically live in the Burger Emporium. Your SOUL probably smells like burger grease and glitter. 

But you work the next eight days, and you don’t see Mr. Cheerful Face Nice Cream Guy, so you figure he packed up and went back to Snowdin. Or Waterfall. Or whatever. You don’t really care, but as customers go, he wasn’t 100% absolutely the worst. 

Maybe a little cheerful, you think almost wistfully, tuning out the customer who’s chewing you out about insufficient quantities of glamour in her burger, but cheerful isn’t a bad thing.

Weird, sure. But not bad.

You’re fifteen minutes away from finishing your shift when he jangles in, as bright and upbeat as the last time. Maybe you can end this shift on a slightly higher note than usual.

You wave him over to your register. “Welcome back—“

“I brought you this!” he says, smiling, offering you a bar of ice cream. “Since you never came around, I thought maybe you’d forgotten. But everyone deserves Nice Cream. Especially underpaid food service workers.”

“That’s… nice,” you say, eyeing the red-and-yellow packaging. It looks handmade; the paper boasts an enormous smile and a stylized picture of an ice cream bar. Your stomach growls despite yourself, reminding you how long you’ve been on your feet. “But I can’t accept anything on the clock. Boss’s orders.”

“Oh.” His face falls a little, and his ears wilt from straight-up to disappointed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you while you’re working.”

You shrug. “I get off in a couple minutes, anyway. But uh, yeah. I’m not supposed to even talk to people who aren’t buying anything.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very friendly business model.”

“It’s not!” You slam your hands on the counter before you can catch yourself, leaning into his face. “And even when people do buy stuff, we’re just supposed to try to sell them more stuff! Would you like to add a starfait to your order? How about a sandwich? It’s ridiculous! I used to have a SOUL! And then I sold it to work with Mettaton, and for WHAT? SO I COULD ASK PEOPLE IF THEY WANT FRIES WITH THAT??”

Mr. Cheerful gives you another smile, this one a little more knowing than you’d like, and offers you the Nice Cream again.

You snatch it from his hand, and shove it in your pocket. You’re off the clock in five minutes, anyway. You can deal with the ice cream getting a little melted. Mettaton never even has to know.

Later, you tear open the wrapping. There’s a hand-drawn illustration of a hug on the inside, and it almost makes you feel bad for yelling.

 

 

You can’t really believe that you’re making the trip to Snowdin on your _only day off._ It might not be so bad if there were Royal Guards who could actually help you with directions, but you don’t speak dog and the really big one in the giant suit of armor barks unhelpfully and licks your face until you fall over.

In the end, you just sort of wander, wishing you’d brought a better jacket. Hotland’s warm enough that you never need to worry about that kind of thing, so Snowdin leaves you unprepared and half-frozen.

What kind of weirdo would buy ice cream in this weather, let alone sell it? 

Oh wait.

You.

You spot a promising red-and-yellow umbrella in the distance, and you kick a snowball out of the way as you make your way over to the brightly-decorated cart.

“Well hello there!” Mr. Cheerful says, perking up as soon as you’re within earshot and it’s clear you’re actually approaching instead of just walking past. “I didn’t think I’d see you again until I looped back through Hotland in a couple of days!”

“Look, buddy, I’m just as surprised that I’m here as you are,” you reply, hunkering down in your coat as a particularly cold gust of wind blows snow into your face. “I just came by to say thanks, I guess. The ice cream was, well, nice.”

“That’s the Nice Cream promise!” he says, beaming again. “I’m glad you enjoyed it! It’s my own special recipe. Won’t melt for hours.”

You eye his overfull cart, and then the snow that’s… everywhere. “It concerns me that this is an issue for you.”

“Oh! Well, no need to be concerned. I’m keeping myself afloat, no worries here!”

You roll your eyes, _finally,_ and order off the ice-coated menu. He hands you an ice cream bar and a handful of change, which you dump in the tip jar so you don’t have to carry it around with you.

Mr. Cheerful smiles like you just made his year.


End file.
